


Meant to Be

by kailthia



Series: Sansûkh: The Appendices [12]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic, Multi, Poly Relationship, Sansukh verse, married cutesyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This picks up the morning after Thror and Hrera's scene in Determamfidd's lovely ficc "Nanammâ."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



Hrera woke in a barely-familiar room with warm arms around her. Her hair was an ungodly mess, and she was sweat-sticky to a degree definitely incongruent with the chill in the room.

 _Married_.

Right.

Hrera began an attempt to wriggle out of her new husband’s embrace – she needed to find a toilet rather urgently, and to ice the cake, she hadn’t managed to ask where the washroom was in Thrór’s quarters was last night.

Since getting out by herself seemed out of the question, Hrera successfully turned around, to see her new husband’s heavily-lidded eyes peering at out at her from a tangled mass of hair.

“G’morning,” he slurred, reaching out to trace her cheek with a finger.

That … should not be as endearing as it was. 

“Can you let me up?” Hrera asked. “I need to use the facilities.”

Hrera’s words seemed to shake off the worst of Thrór’s sleepiness, and he withdrew his arms. Hrera scooted to the edge of the bed (though she would deny ever doing something so undignified), and began to fish for the slippers that _should_ be – ah, there they were. Inserting her feet and standing, Hrera turned back to her husband and won the wager she had mentally made with herself. In the moment since she had left his arms, Thrór had … begun snuggling her pillow, his nose buried deep in the dimple where her head had rested.

Telphor’s hammer, she had married a _cuddler_. Hrera rolled her eyes and coughed delicately. Thrór looked up from her pillow, eyes still a little unfocused.

“Yes, dear?”

“Where are the facilities in your apartment, _kereb'uznat_?” Hrera asked, peering at the several doors leading from the large bedchamber. She recognized the door they had entered from the day before by the golden sun inlays. The other three doors were a mystery, though one of them had to be the washroom.

Thrór heaved himself off of the bed, pointing to the door on the left.  Hrera headed in that direction, reaching for the robe which had been thoughtfully left for her on the chair of the vanity. She didn’t get a good look at the room’s contents until after she had closed the door to the washroom firmly behind her – while she believed that married couples should share a great deal, toilet use was not one of them.

Hands on her hips, Hrera took a deep breath and a good look. It almost made her forget about the rather urgent need to void her bladder.

Whoever had designed _this_ was definitely a worthy craftperson. One of the baths was large and deep, perfect for soaking. The other was smaller, shallower, perfect for bathing a child or a quick wash for oneself. The room was lined with shelves, and had several sinks, with the piping cleverly hidden. Hrera headed for the toilet niche.

Business done, Hrera investigated the soaker tub in greater detail, sitting with her legs over the edge near the taps. Turning on the hot water, she began opening as smelling the variety of small bottles of product in baskets near the edges of the tub. A discreet knock on the door turned Hrera’s attention away from a very nice amber-scented shampoo.

“Are you decent, my lady?”

Hrera frowned. So formal, even after the night they had shared. Well, that wouldn’t do. She purposely lowered the (already-low) neckline of her robe before asking her husband to enter. Patting the side of the bathtub next to her, she invited Thrór to sit. Eyeing the water level in the tub, Hrera poured in a measure of the lavender mixture she had set aside earlier.

“May I ask why there are enough bath products set aside here for a patrol?” Hrera asked mildly.

Thrór blushed. “I … was unsure what you might like, and so asked for a selection to be brought up.”

Hrera sighed. “You never thought to ask me? Or at least my maid, if you wanted it to be a surprise?”

Thrór hunched his shoulders a little, seeming awfully like Hrera’s oldest nibling. “It didn’t occur to me.”

Hrera absolutely, unquestionably, most definitely did not giggle. Princesses – she corrected herself, Queens – did not giggle. It simply was not done.

“It was rather sweet of you to think of it, though. Dear.”

The blush was back. Hrera bumped Thrór’s shoulder with her own, and he leaned into the touch. They stayed like that for several minutes, watching the tub fill in contented silence. Once Hrera judged the water level sufficient to her goals, she turned the water off (thanking Mahal for indoor plumbing, she had had enough of the lack on her trip to Erebor), and pulled her husband after her in the direction of the steps into the bathtub. She pulled on her best poker-face.

“Now, off with the robe and into the water.”

Thrór sputtered, Hrera doing her best to not roll her eyes or giggle again.

“Do hurry up, or the water will start getting cold. Come on, don’t be shy, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

For someone who could command so well, Thrór did blush a lot. Hrera said as much.

Thrór shrugged. “Work is work. Most people expect to see a king, anyway. Except for you.”

Hrera smiled, and, dropping her robe, waded into the tub. “I still see the king, _umral_. Just not only the king.”

Any protests were drowned under an insistent kiss.

****

As Hrera scrubbed at her husband’s hair, she felt relieved that she had managed to wake at a decent hour. It simply would not do to be late to the celebratory lunch for their first day as a wedded couple. 

“How under earth did you get your hair in such a mess?”

There was the stare she remembered from over-long Court sessions. “You were there. You tell me.”

“Too much sleep, not enough exercise. Now dunk your head.”

 Soon enough they were both clean, and had left the bath, though rather wrinkled. Dwarves were _not_ meant for extended exposure to water. 

Having grabbed a (pleasantly fluffy, another plus) towel Hrera began aggressively toweling her hair, before having the towel gently removed from her hands. She gave Thrór her best glare.

“What?”

He didn’t look sheepish in the slightest. She must be losing her edge.

“May I help you, dear?”

Hrera sniffed. Because appearances must be _maintained_.

“If you wish.”

Thrór’s hands were gentle as he carefully used the dryer portions of the towel on her hair and beard, before switching it for a new one, repeating the procedure until her hair was merely damp. Hrera turned her head towards her husband as his motions slowed. She quirked an eyebrow.

“You may as well keep going.”

Hands swiftly bound her hair up in a towel, and a new one ventured towards her shoulders and back.

Deft fingers touched the tattoo on the back of her neck.

“I’ve seen tattoos in the style before, but haven’t been able to ask what they mean. Care to explain?”

A very useful discussion on Broadbeam tattoo work followed, accompanied by the judicious application of toweling. By the time Hrera was dry, and her hair and beard in simple braids pending proper styling, Thrór had been at least introduced to the major areas of this important cultural aspect, from the color (typically blue, a result of the different regional dyes), styling (circular patterns were common, with the silversmith’s decreased focus on the painfully sharp lines so favored by the Longbeards), and a short discussion of the meanings of those tattoos currently adorning Hrera’s own self (notably her status as second-born in a royal house, her craft mastery, and her newest large work, her marriage-tattoo, which got a soft kiss).

This led to a reciprocal toweling and explanation of Thrór’s major instances of body art. Hrera had seen many of them before their wedding – a result of a few judicious trips to the training grounds for something was most definitely not ogling – but the explanations were appreciated.  The pair of mourning-marks on his back, to remember father and brother killed by a cold-drake, were especially noted. 

            Eventually, they were both dry, and had moved to their bedroom, Thrór leading his wife to one of the unknown doors – this time, an impressive closet. Hrera noted that all of her clothes were here, including those which she had brought from her former home (that thought, of her childhood home as former, felt right and wrong in equal measure), and those which had been made up for her here in Erebor.

            A short spell of choosing of clothes (in which Hrera discussed the merits of coordination, both for oneself and between spouses), and another of dressing, and both Hrera and Thrór were presentable – nearly.  Hrera still had her hair in a towel, and her beard (along with Thrór’s beard and hair) were tied back in simple braids.

“Hrera dear, would you be kind enough to tend my hair?” asked Thrór gently.

“Of course, husband,” Hrera replied, equally gently.

Leading Hrera out of the closet, Thrór led her to his dressing table, and sat.

“Wait a moment, _ghivasha_?”

Thrór nodded, and Hrera went to her own vanity table, and fished out a small, carved box, tied with a jaunty ribbon, from her jewelry box. Bringing it back, she gave it to her husband with a slight smile – not at all nervous, why would she be nervous?

“It is traditional among my people to give a gift to one’s spouse the morning after the wedding,” Hrera explained, definitely without any trace of a stutter and thankfully with her eyes on her beloved’s. “This is mine, for you. It is typically something of a personal nature.”

Thrór opened the box to see a lovely set of beard clasps, of kyanite set in silver, obviously made to be a match to the hair-clasps currently on Thrór’s table. Thrór picked one up to examine it, and, replacing it gently in its box, kissed Hrera’s knuckles.

“They are almost as lovely as you are, _idùzhib_.” Reaching out, he put the boxes of both the beard- hair-clasps within Hrera’s easy reach. “Put them in for me?”

“Of course. Do you want me to do anything particular with your hair?”

“Whatever you wish, dearest, since you’ve already made your opinion on my current styling methods clear.”

Hrera took her husband’s hair and beard out of the braids and began methodically brushing them out with a comb. They talked quietly of inane things as she worked, of the weather outside the mountain, of their various niblings, the food at the feast the night before, Hrera asking or reaching for the occasional item from the table – hair oil, a hair tie, a clasp. Hrera was relieved that Thrór found obvious pleasure in the feel of her hands in his hair. Finally, Hrera put the last comb down.

“And there you go! Fit for polite company again.”

The corners of Thrór’s eyes crinkled.

“Does that mean that you don’t consider yourself polite company, wife?”

Hrera picked up the brush within easiest reach to gently tap her husband on the nose.

“I am impeccable company. Now, will you fix my hair or will I have to it myself?”

Taking the brush from Hrera’s hand, Thrór smiled.

“I’d be happy to, _umral_.”

Hrera caught the empty hand reaching for her hair and brought it to her cheek.

*****

The day at Court had been long, for all that they had not joined it until mid-morning. There had been a steady stream of congratulatory people, and Hrera had had to spend a good portion of time fending off unwanted questions about her husband’s _abilities_. Some people really had no sense of appropriate behavior.

They had managed to escape back to their rooms after the formal supper. It was quite late, and they were both quite tired.

“Will you help me with my buttons?” Hrera asked. The ones in the back were fiddly, and she hated to ask her maid when Thrór was right there.

“Of course, dear.”

Supple fingers made short work of the delicate buttons, and Hrera felt hands move the hair from her neck before soft lips were softly pressed to the back of her neck. Thror must have felt some of the stiffness that had overcome her, because his expression was concerned as he moved to stand in front of her.

“What is it, my _ghivashel_?”

The words did not seem to want to come out, then came in a rush, like molten metal that had finally reached melting point. She could not seem to look Thrór in the eyes, instead looking at her hands where they rested on his chest.

“I …. would share my _kherumel_ with you, husband.”  

The concern in Thrór’s eyes was gone, replaced by tenderness.

“And I with you, wife.”

Hrera took a deep breath, her outtake forming a quiet,“ _Ulnasuabkâ_.”

Thrór touched his forehead to hers. “ _Umùhud-zaharâl_.”

They stood like that for several minutes, breathing in each other’s air. Hrera broke the moment by reaching up for a kiss.

As she fell asleep that night, hair tousled and red-lipped, Hrera knew that she was where she was meant to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About a year after chapter 1.

It was almost impossible to get good quality leeks in Erebor.

Whatever Longbeards had against vegetables was beyond Hrera, but she would be damned if she would make her special soup without leeks. The other Broadbeams in the city might do without leeks in their soup, but being royalty had some prerogatives. Hrera had sent for leek seeds from the Greenwood, and had gotten her favorite purveyor of vegetables to grow them. Now she could make _the soup_.

Hrera had not had the chance to make her special dumpling soup for Thrór in the entire first year-and-a-bit of their marriage or in the courtship leading up to it. This was an oversight that must now be resolved. Not least of which because it meant that Hrera could use the soup as an excuse to spend some more private time with her husband, a commodity always in short supply.

Tossing another handful of chopped leeks into the pot simmering on the hearth, Hrera heard the door to the kitchen in the royal apartments open. She turned towards the doorway to see her husband, eyebrows raised, mouth partway open. One of the papers in the sheaf in the crook of his arm quietly fell to the floor while she watched.

Hrera’s own eyebrows may have finally attempted to reach her hairline.

“Yes, husband?”

“You cook?” Hrera made a mental note to see how often she could bring back that look of totally gobsmacked amazement; it was a very unusual (though not displeasing) sight on her usually perpetually-calm spouse.

“Of course I cook. This is hardly the first time you’ve seen me in here, Thrór.”

“But that was just to make a cup of tea or some porridge. Not this sort of … major culinary endeavor.”

Hrera wrinkled her nose. “Which is exactly why I decided to pursue such an endeavor. I’ve missed cooking. And I have yet to serve you my specialty soup.”

Thrór eyed the pot and the countertop. “Is that by any chance dumpling soup?”

Hrera smiled. “Yes it is. Now tie your hair back and put an apron on. You can help me chop the onions.”

Thrór did as he was bid with only a modicum of grumbling after placing his folder (including the fallen sheet) on an out-of-the way counter. “I can’t believe that you managed to cancel my late-afternoon appointments to make soup. What under earth did you tell Nár? They were positively chortling as they sent me up here.”

A shrug. “I merely intimated something to effect that heirs aren’t going to make themselves. Nár was very obliging and cancelled all your appointments for the rest of the day.”

Thrór stopped chopping to stare at his wife. “You didn’t. Durin’s beard, I’ll be hearing about this for weeks.” Turning back to the onions, he muttered, “And I won’t even get to enjoy my time off properly.”

Hrera gave her husband a serene look. “Do calm yourself. I didn’t lie to Nár” – Thrór’s suddenly hopeful look was quelled by a raised eyebrow – “but there’s soup to make before other entertainments present themselves. Hurry up with the onions.”

The royal couple continued to work. Vegetables were chopped, beef was diced fine and mixed with herbs and then rolled into dough. Eventually, ingredients were finally all in the pot, a tray of quick-rising rolls were sitting by the vent waiting to go into the oven, and the dishes were done. Hrera pushed her husband back towards their bedroom as he muttered direly about shriveled fingers. 

Thrór went to what he called his “thinking chair” (which Hrera privately thought was a horrifically ugly behemoth of purple corduroy, but it pleased Thrór and no one else had to look at it) and sat. _Tarâk_ jumped into his lap almost immediately, and began mewing insistently for the affection that he felt was his due. Thrór obliged, petting the orange cat’s stomach until the cat fell into a doze. Hrera, who had been giving the cat a stare which normally caused the recipient to hurriedly leave her presence, picked up the feline and carried him to his bed in the living room, dropping him there with perhaps a bit more gusto than usual given the cat’s protests. Upon her return to the bedroom, Hrera took off her slippers and plopped herself down on her husband’s lap.

A very enjoyable period of leisurely kisses followed. Hrera had almost managed to get Thrór’s shirt off when a bubbling sound from the kitchen made her raise her head from her husband’s chest.

Hrera was most of the way towards the kitchen before Thrór realized that his lap was empty. Buttoning his shirt and pulling on his over-tunic, he followed, finding Hrera muttering to herself balefully as she stirred. Thrór didn’t know why she bothered – inanimate objects couldn’t react to her tongue-lashings or her stares the way people did, no matter how hard she tried.

“Put the rolls in the oven, will you, dearest. _Nirdal_ , though – if they go too far in the oventhey’ll burn.”

“Yes, dear.” Thrór removed the cloth covering the rolls and, opening the oven door, carefully placed the tray inside.

Given that the meal was almost prepared, the couple did not bother resuming their prior activities. Hrera directed her husband to set the table while she fetched the various oddments required for the meal from the cold room.

Soon enough, they were seated at the rectangular table, each with a large bowl of soup and a pair of warm rolls in front of them. Thrór took a spoonful of stew with the look of a dwarrow fully prepared to appreciate food no matter its taste. He inserted the spoon into his mouth.

“ _Karzith_! Th-”

Hrera coughed delicately.

Thrór swallowed his words and then his mouthful of soup.

“This is delicious, dear. Thank you for preparing it for me.”

Hrera inclined her head graciously. “You are very welcome. Now eat up. And don’t chew with your mouth open.”

“Of course, _idùzhib_.”

Soup and rolls were eaten with gusto, though the cleaning-up was done with less enthusiasm.

The royal couple were heading towards their bedroom to continue unfinished bedroom when Nár poked their head through the mostly-closed door to the kitchen.

“Did I miss the soup?” they asked.

Hrera nodded. “There’s a bit left, but it’s not hot. Are you hungry, or can it wait until after?”

Nár considered.

“After is definitely good.”

Hrera had always liked Nár’s sense of prioritization.

******

“Why do I put up with you two?”

Hrera’s hair was mussed, her jewelry was strewn around the room (her necklace had disappeared beyond obvious recovery, and one of her earrings was jabbing her in the thigh), and Nár was eating in bed. Which was as rude as it was unhygienic.

Nár looked up from their bowl. “I came with this one.” Their spoon pointed at Thrór. “ _And_ you said you liked my bottom and my sense of humor, O Queen under the Mountain.”

Hrera sniffed. “Don’t drip soup on the bedding. And your bottom is only marginally above average.”

Thrór shrugged. “I honestly have no idea why you married me. Or why I keep spending time with this one.” He poked Nár with his elbow, to a protest.

Hrera hauled herself out of bed. “Come on, you two. Baths and then sleep. We’ll have to be up early tomorrow to catch up on all the work we didn’t do today.”

“Can I bring my soup?”

“No. Soup doesn’t agree with bathtime.”

As she sauntered towards the bathing room, Hrera wondered if her current arrangements were the result of some chance, or intended by some greater plan. She decided that it didn’t really matter – she was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes & Khuzdul:  
> I think that root vegetables might be less offensive to Dwarvish tastes than leafy greens.   
> I’ve put Nár in as agender – more non-binary representation ftw! Also qp relationships for the win. As a side note – as a cis het woman, my knowledge of qp relationships is limited to what I can learn. If I’m doing something wrong/offensive, please tell me. I’m always trying to improve, and am most definitely not trying to portray inaccuracies or offensive materials.   
> About the kitchen. I figure that the Ereborean royalty can cook, but don’t usually because of time constraints. Dwarves are super-practical, and at least basic cooking would be a skill that everyone would learn. Hence the small kitchen attached to the royal apartments. As seen above, it would probably be used mostly for smaller things – snacks, hot drinks, breakfasts – but could be used for real cooking if stocked appropriately. Hrera cooks real food when she can.   
> Tarâk – buttons. Buttons the Kitty is Hattedhedgehog’s. I borrowed him with permission.   
> Nirdal – carefully.   
> Karzith – glory of all glories (dwarrowscholar, praisèd be their name, has changed their rules. Don’t sue me.)  
> Idùzhib – diamond  
> Karagâl: lit. He/She that is a honorer. I’m using this as a term for a qp partner. They’re not a lover, not a spouse … just someone you care for deeply/are honored to be with.

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdûl & Commentary:  
> kereb'uznat – lit. greatest frizzy hair. Hrera is sassy af, and bedhead is 100% a Durin trait.  
> Umral - greater / greatest love  
> Idùzhib – diamond. (What do you mean Thorin picked this up as an endearment from his sappy grandpa. Didn’t cross my mind at all)  
> ghivasha – treasure  
> ghivashel – treasure of all treasures  
> kherumel – name of all names  
> Umùhud-zaharâl – Builder of glory  
> Ulnasuabkât: Lover of Truth. This is Dets-Canon :)  
> I got the idea for the Broadbeam tattoos based on the idea that Broadbeams having Irish accents and thus possibly Irish (i.e. Celtic) tattoo work, which is very circular in nature and is often blue or black. Tattoos for loved ones are common, and their knotwork is very impressive. I urge you to Google it!  
> According to the LOTR Appendices, Thrór’s father and middle brother Frór were killed by a cold-drake at the door of their Halls in 2589. This spurred Thrór’s going to Erebor and Grór (brother #3) to go out and found the colony at the Iron Hills.


End file.
